Kept Not Their First Estate
by Musegaarid
Summary: Crowley's life leading up to and immediately following his Fall. Or, an angel learns his place the hard way. No slash. Some angst and violence.


"Oh, oh, do Gabriel next!"

The dark-haired angel drew himself up haughtily, changed his eyes to vivid blue and in a pinched voice said, "When you need to requisition further project supplies, the XC-2 is filled out in triplicate and the XC-3 is filled out in duplicate, unless it's a reorder, in which case you fill out four copies of the XC-3 and two copies of the XC-4.1. If I've told you once, I've told you a hundred times. It's all perfectly clear."

The blond angel, Fraciel, drew his navy wings forward to hide his roar of laughter. After a moment, he leaned forward, red-faced, and whispered, "Do Pelariel…"

Looking faintly shocked, but his eyes twinkling mischievously, the dark-haired angel looked furtively around before letting his eyes shade to a drab olive green. Fraciel grinned in anticipation, watching as his friend took a straight-backed militaristic posture, clasping his hands behind his back and booming, "Where's my stamen, ladies? (1) Why don't I have a stamen?"

Laughing so hard, he couldn't stand up straight, Fraciel leaned on their work table to support himself. Wiping the tears out of his eyes, he glanced up at his friend and his face suddenly froze. It was enough of a giveaway that the dark-haired angel knew he was in trouble. He turned around slowly.

"That's a good question," said Pelariel, who had materialized seemingly out of nowhere. "Maybe if you didn't waste so many events (2) by making fun of your superiors, I'd have a stamen by now." He paced around the two lesser angels, inspecting them. "Fraciel! Stand up straight, get your wings back, and wipe that smirk off your face."

"Yes, sir."

"Now get back to work, ladies. If I don't have a stamen at the event of Lachiel and Odiel finishing their pistils, I _will_ know why. And watch those eyes, Alteriel."

He stomped away and Alteriel blinked his eyes back to their normal light grey. With a conspiratorial glance at Fraciel, he made a small hand gesture and a sign appeared on Pelariel's retreating back that encouraged other angels to 'Ask me about my stamen!'

Sniggering, the two friends returned to their task, a dark head and a blond head bent together trying to figure out the details of plant reproduction.

* * *

After, before, during that occurrence, the two were having a much more serious discussion. 

"I'm telling you, Alteriel, Lucifer makes some really good points. You don't want to be in here working on _Plants_ for eternity, do you?"

"I like plants," he murmured softly. "What else would you do?"

Fraciel threw his hands up. "I don't know! Something different. Something exciting. Not just practice drills and stamens. Come with me. Come hear him speak, at least."

Feeling uncomfortable, Alteriel shook his head. "I think I'll stay. These anthers need more work and I really don't want Pelariel mad at me again. I'll be demoted to molds."

"Suit yourself," Fraciel said, clearly disappointed. "But you're not the angel I thought you were."

Alteriel's wings shifted restlessly as his friend left. Something was happening here, some kind of _Change_, and he wasn't sure he liked it.

* * *

He was alone in the Hall, skipping drills in order to catch up, when he first heard the noise. There was the beat of thousands of wings, the clanging sound of swords meeting, and the faint sound of orders being called. Alteriel didn't think much of it, engrossed as he was in his work. 

Eventually, however, an off-note began to percolate into his consciousness. The sounds weren't the regulated order of drills, but were frantic, almost pained. Frightened, he ran out into utter chaos.

Everywhere he could see, angels were fighting against other angels. And not just in proscribed, practiced movements, but with intent to harm. He blinked, horrified. Littering the ground were injured and dead angels, weapons fallen to the side. Alteriel had never seen _Death_ before; had never had to understand _Pain_ or _Wrath_, and he was overwhelmed with colour, noise, the tang of blood and smoke in the air. It was too much to comprehend. He had no idea what was going on or why.

Striking his way across the battlefield of the city, Alteriel came upon an injured angel he didn't know; a sword hilt protruding from his abdomen, mottled brown wings wilted. Laying a hand upon the other's forehead, he did his best to deaden the pain enough to remove the sword and seal the wound.

The instant the sword was free, an angel whose hair was the same crimson as his wings came up behind them poised to strike. Without looking back, Alteriel used the bloody sword he had in hand to knock away the blow and defend them both, fighting in ways the attacking angel had never seen. Alteriel been the best fighter in his class, blessed by God with the talent of improvisation. The others hadn't been envious, of course, because God had given them all unique talents, but they were impressed with the way he seemed to be able to fight instinctively, using whatever he had to hand, rather than having to hone his strikes with endless repetition, or moving stiffly as the rest of them did. Eventually, he disarmed the other and the redhead fled, eyes wide with _Fear_.

Alteriel continued his path, healing any angels he could find that were still alive, and defending himself ably against those who would attack, though he knew not why they did. After he'd healed twenty or thirty or sixty - individuals only by dint of their colouring; here black hair and pink wings, there dark-blond with white wings, and over there brunette and lavender, but all with the same horrific wounds - he finally caught the glimpse of the navy and blond that he'd been looking for.

Lying on his side, bleeding massively from a gaping hole in his back where a wing had been, was Fraciel. Not noticing who else was nearby, Alteriel rushed to his side, exhausted but relieved. He could fix this. He could help his friend. The dark-haired angel was just reaching out a hand and drawing on his last reserves of energy when a voice commanded him to stop.

"Pelariel?"

"Just back off there, Alteriel. That's a good lad."

"What do you mean? He's going to die if I don't help him."

His superior only nodded. Alteriel frowned.

"I can't let him die. He won't exist any longer. I need his help on stamens. And he's my friend."

Pelariel scowled. "He's a traitor. The followers of Lucifer are trying to take over Heaven. Don't you use those eyes for anything but mocking, boy?"

Comprehension dawned, then faded as he looked around. How did anyone know who was a follower and who was a rebel? All he saw were _(smoke glass stain bright colour)_ angels. Shades of wings and hair and eyes apart, they were all the same; just violent hues clashing against one another in the skies. He looked up at Pelariel.

"He's an angel. I'm going to help him."

Reaching out a second time, he was unsurprised when the olive-eyed angel charged forward. Expecting to be struck himself, Alteriel drew his sword in defense, when Pelariel took a mighty swing and cut off Fraciel's head.

His face frozen in horror, Alteriel could do nothing but stare open-mouthed at the body of his friend. Fraciel, who always laughed at his jokes, who gave him the credit for all his good ideas, who had been his partner since their creation, was _Gone_. Unable to wrap his mind around the concept, Alteriel was fast coming to terms with _Denial_ and _Grief_ when the sword came up again and he needed to pay attention or join his colleague in Azrael's wings; black folds of eternal night.

"I am not a follower of Lucifer," he said, confused and feinting desperately.

Pelariel's face was hard. "You may as well be. How many of the enemy have you healed today?"

This was another new concept. _Enemy._ "I don't know," he answered honestly. "I've healed any angel that needed it."

"Then you are a traitor, too," Pelariel proclaimed and came after him again. Their battle was fierce. Alteriel was trying not to hurt the other, but his superior had no such compunction, so as well-matched as they were, Alteriel began to fall back.

_Lord,_ he thought frantically, _what do You want me to do? Do You want me to fight for You? How do I know who's on which side? Was I supposed to heal those rebel angels or might I have inadvertently worked against You? But that's not possible, is it? So You must have wanted this to happen. For all these angels... for Fraciel to... Why?"_

An angelic corpse at his heels, Alteriel stumbled over it and Fell.

* * *

_Alone. Empty and alone. Though the physical wounds from his endless and terrifying plummet _(3)_ were considerable, they paled before the dark and angry abyss inside. There existed only a gaping chasm of _Loss _where his hope, his happiness, his heart had been brutally torn from him._

_Though the air was burning, he felt desperately cold and he wrapped his wings around his nearly broken body. Dove grey wings. A cruel symbol of what he could never be again. Snarling, he used the last of his energy to make them black as death. A mark of the mourner. Of the betrayed._

_He wept thick and bitter tears. He ranted, screamed, and fought those around him. He turned his anger on himself, slicing flesh with sharp new claws and fangs, tearing out feathers a handful at a time. Nothing helped. Nothing was enough to fill the massive, howling emptiness._

_Even as Dis and Pandemonium were constructed, even as other demons accepted and rejoiced in their twisted and bitter new bodies and roles, even as time, which meant nothing in this place yet, passed, for one demon it was never enough. He learned only to deny his pain, to hide it, to deceive, but it never lessened._

_And then he met the Morningstar..._

* * *

"And who are you, little one?" asked a commanding, snide voice. 

The fallen angel was shaken out of his personal pain long enough to look up into a beautiful, cruel face. Lucifer may not have recognized him, but he knew the former archangel's face well. "I don't know," he answered; his hollow words an echo from before. And he didn't. His name, his self, everything that he had been, everything God had given him, was gone.

The newly minted Adversary laughed loud and long. "So, not even a part of my army and All Mighty God turned on you anyway. Of course you'd come crawling to me for answers."

His brow contracted. "I'm n..." he began, but Lucifer interrupted.

"I like you, little demon. Little Crawly. I think I have a special task for you..."

Which was why, when there was finally _Time_, Crawly found himself in the strange new realm of Earth. He opened mortal, yellow eyes carefully against the blinding sun and tasted the air. It tasted of... "pollen?" A quick slither to the nearest flower confirmed it. Pistils, pollen, stamens; his work - and Fraciel's - just as they had designed it. Their ideas were everywhere in that place, and the myriad forms they'd taken were beautiful. Especially that bright red fruit on the tree in the center of the walled garden.

Maybe not everything had been taken from him after all...

* * *

(1) Gender had yet to be invented, but this term still felt vaguely insulting to the two angels. 

(2) Time had yet to be invented, too.

(3) He wouldn't be blase enough about it to call it 'sauntering' for several thousand years.


End file.
